


Falling In

by hannahrhen



Series: Heliamphora [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Happy Ending, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From part one: "She’d never known Jack to respond to shrinking violets, but, then, he knew more than anyone what Ianto was capable of. A shy violet with a pitfall trap to fall willingly, joyfully into." ... Fits tightly with the scene in the first story, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling In

Jack stared at his hands, wrapped around the tumbler of inexpensive but decent Scotch he’d found in one of Ianto’s cupboards. A single lamp at the end of the couch was on, casting a yellowy light through part of the room. It was after midnight--pitch black out. Perfect time to think.

Also: the worst time to think.

He’d wandered out of the bedroom after making sure Ianto was asleep. Not skulking, per se, but … not wanting to talk. The younger man had been … there was no other word for it but _spectacular_. Exactly what Jack had wanted. It had just taken the one suggestion in the Hub--the one command, actually. “Your place.” But Ianto knew the game and let himself be strong-armed, anyway.

Once here, it had been minutes--not seduction, not persuasion. Just rough preparation, demands, a couple of shoves, if he thought about it. And Ianto was on his back in his own bed, fingers and palms gripping the rails in his headboard. Jack on top, held tightly in the ungiving muscle and bone of Ianto’s thighs and ankles, as he rode out his pleasure.

What the fuck were they doing?

What was _he_ doing?

Sitting in the almost-dark, nursing a Scotch, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, brooding over a younger lover like the dirty old man he was. Their first couplings hadn’t been quite like this, but they hadn’t been radically different, either. Step-stones to what they were doing now. Ianto on his knees behind Jack’s desk, handjobs wherever they found each other after hours. Or during hours, more than once.

Tonight, Ianto submitting to him against the wall in the Archives, easily going along with Jack’s demands as he was pinned, pushed, tasted. Up until the last week, everything had been just that easy.

Jack had made it clear, clear from the beginning, that he wanted no more. He was done with subtlety, seduction, love, relationships--he couldn’t bring himself to say “never,” because, as it turned out, that was going to be a damned long time, but not now. Not yet. He knows what the twenty-first century is going to bring, and he doesn’t want to leave anyone behind here whose fate matters.

Whose fate matters to _him_.

Ianto got it, or so Jack thought. No, not Jack’s reasons, but Jack was the boss, so Ianto seemed to compartmentalize the cocksucking and handjobs into something separate from the job, from ninety-nine percent of their interactions.

It was Jack’s fucking fatal misstep the week before that buggered this all up. Gone out, on the pull, and kept it too close to home--been discovered like a bored husband on a night of bad judgment. Had his hands in the pants of an insurance adjuster too close to an alley entrance, sweet-talked just a little too loud … and the odd lack-of-noise make him look up in time just to see Owen--fucking _Owen!_ \--watching him with an impressed grin. He got a thumbs-up, and Owen went on his way. At the time, Jack knew that trouble was brewing, but he couldn’t have said why. Owen seemed mildly surprised, mostly impressed, definitely amused, and not particularly troubled by his boss groping a suited, handsome thirtysomething man in an alleyway.

It was the deadly combination of impressed and amused that got him, though, because Owen couldn’t wait to tell his colleagues his little secret the next morning. Jack wasn’t around to hear it, but based on Gwen’s and Tosh’s minimal reactions, they’d shaken off whatever issues they had with the anecdote long before he finally appeared.

Ianto, on the other hand …

 _Fuck._

 _Hurt_ wasn’t the right word for it. _Jealous_ may have been closer. _Prickly_ \--yeah, there you go. But whatever bullshit Welsh reserve Ianto managed to hide behind in situations like this, it had been erected strong as a brick wall.

Ianto didn’t _own_ him. And after thirty-six hours, when Jack finally understood what was going on, when he finally noticed the coffee delivered with a draft of cold and noticed, for the second time, Ianto leaving with the last-departing coworker (fucking Owen, for God’s sake, always _Owen_ ), Jack had made it a priority to reiterate the message: You have no claim on me. This is nothing but an office fuck.

He could do prickly, damn it. He could do bloody-fucking-razors. It was that simple.

The problem was, he’d gotten pleasantly used to--in a very short few weeks--having those hands on him in the Archives, plowing into that tight ass in his camp bed, fresh coffee mug set down before long, pale fingers reached for his trousers.

Even worse--much, much worse--was noticing the missing company after hours, the missing smiles and kind words. Jack remembered, while clenching his hand tightly, ten or so days before, Ianto laying on the sofa, head in Jack’s lap, asking him questions about his childhood--all intentionally, brilliantly vague. Did he have a pet? What was his favorite school subject? Did he go to church-temple-synagogue-mosque? Ianto’s trousers had been open, pushed awry--they’d both already come at least once--but it was weirdly … sweet.

He’d found out Ianto’s favorite childhood food (pot pie), pet cats’ names (Puss and Boots--not his fault), churchgoing habits until he got “old” and cynical … and the night had come to an abrupt halt when Jack had lurched up, rearranging his clothes, making excuses about having work to do and seeing Ianto bright and early the next morning.

Too close. Too damned close.

He’d gone out the next night and had the Close Encounter of the Seventh Kind in that alley. He’d stayed too close to the Hub, that night, too close to Owen’s usual path home, pulled too early and …

Stupid.

He heard movement from Ianto’s bedroom, creaks of the mattress, then the sound of wood on wood as a dresser drawer slid open. Jack pulled his feet off the coffee table just before he saw the tall figure appear in the corner of his eye.

“I was going to offer to get you something, but it looks like you’ve taken care of that yourself.”

Jack glanced over briefly. “I don’t want this, Ianto. Not now.” A sharp reply to set the tone. Prickly. Razors, _damn it._

“You’ve made that more than clear … sir.” Ianto’s folded his arms over his chest.

Jack looked Ianto over. The man was tired--eyes were bleary with pronounced shadows underneath. He’d pulled on some navy blue sweatpants, but his chest and feet were bare. Bitten. Bruised. _Beautiful._ He leaned against the corner next to the hall that would take him back to his bedroom.

Jack took a swallow of the Scotch. “What do you want, Ianto?”

A shrug, a rueful grin. Then: “Not this, either. More, I suppose.” A breath. “More than I’m going to get, apparently."

After a moment, he continued. "That--,” nodding his head toward the bedroom, “--was … brilliant, but … “ Another shrug. "You don’t want this now, but now, I think, is what we get."

A silent moment passed. Then: “Anything else you'd like to say? ... Sir?”

“What?” Jack looked up. “Oh, no--no.”

Ianto's arms dropped to his sides. “Then ... I’m going back to bed.”

Jack looked back at his glass. “Okay,” he managed. Strong beginning, he thought, but he didn't exactly _stick_ the _landing._

Soft footsteps, creaking wood as the other man returned to bed. Jack put his feet back on the coffee table.

Two choices now, he supposed.

Go or stay.

Go back to the Hub, shut this down … well, let’s be honest. He probably wasn’t going to shut down anything that got him sucked off in his office at eight in the morning. Ianto proved tonight that he was still, well, up for anything, shadowed eyes, tense posture, and discontented declarations aside. One press and he’d submit, no matter how _prickly_ he felt. Jack could be kind enough to get what he needed without giving up … more than he wanted.

Or, option two …

Back to the bedroom. Back where Ianto, he knew, was lying awake--still open to being _with_ Jack as much as he was willing to be ... _beneath_ him. Stupid, stupid talk of pot pies and pets--the meaningless talk that made Jack’s heart warm and ache and _need_.

Fuck.

Moving his feet back to the floor, Jack set the glass down on the coffee table--carefully sliding it onto a folded-up newspaper. His heart thudded as he stood, shaking off the old-man brooding that had almost ruined the night. Ten paces, fifteen, and he was in the doorway …

Ianto had been watching, probably since the thump of the glass on the table. “Jack.” The name, soft and imbued with fondness, and the smile that came with it were his rewards for being foolish. For _falling in._

He’d take them.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, when I wrote Heliamphora, I had no idea what was going on between Jack and Ianto--that was part of the fun. But I couldn't stop trying to work it out, and, of course, I had to have a happy ending, dang it. I am a sucker for a happy ending!


End file.
